Of Palaces and Ruins
by livelongandgetiton
Summary: Bagginshield AU, Slow burn. Bilbo Baggins is a retired scholar now teaching secondary school, and Thorin is an architect who has fled corruption in his home country, Erebor. Bilbo is hired to become the personal tutor for his nephews, and expects an easy job, but mystery, political intrigue, and a bit of unexpected romance are things that he doesn't see coming.
1. Prologue

Bilbo Baggins was a creature of habit - particularly when it came to life's simple comforts. A good book, a blazing fireplace, and a cozy armchair that swallowed him up when he sat in it, hugging him on all sides with the warm embrace that hand-me-down furniture often had. These, he told himself, were all he really needed to be happy. And when the chill of the fall crept into the empty halls of the once bustling little cottage, and the muffled roar of the autumn winds rattled the old panes - reminding Bilbo just how silent the house had become - he fixed himself a cup of warm chamomile tea, nibbled on a biscuit, and convinced himself that these were enough. That _this _was enough.

After all, he knew himself - it had been enough for him before. He had sought out adventure and excitement at every turn in his life, but his anxiety always crippled him, sent him running home to this house sooner or later each time. Although that, of course, had been because Belladonna had always been there to greet him, comfort him, and stuff him with delicious breads and pies and biscuits until he could feel all of the worry melting away. His mother had always had that effect on him - one of grounding, utter joy, and comfort. The feeling of home. He had not felt that calm for years, since her passing. He simply had not been the same.

Bilbo had been two and a half years into his Archaeology PhD program at University College London when she had passed. He had just received his Masters degree; Belladonna had been too sick to attend the small departmental ceremony (and besides, he had fully intended to finish the program and earn his PhD, a feat he considered more worth the celebration), but she had been too weak for travel for quite some time. Her passing was unexpected, and tore a massive hole inside of Bilbo.

He had barely slept or eaten for days after he heard the news. He hardly left his apartment, missed class, and didn't show up for his position as a lab assistant. He knew that he needed to contact his professors, his employer, and he needed to go back home...and deal with things. He would have to pack her house away, compartmentalize the material remains of her life, and fully accept that she was gone and that he would never see her waiting for him by that dark green door again. He couldn't bear the thought, so he chose to put off the inevitable.

Finally, after a week, he caved to the dozens of calls he was receiving from his aunts and cousins and packed up a bag for the weekend, buying a bus ticket last minute and hauling his bags out in the miserable misty drizzle to begin his journey out to the countrysidefor the funeral. He hardly remembered that first week back in his mother's little cottage, in a village so small that it rarely appeared on maps. He sat stone-faced at her funeral as her coffin was lowered into the damp earth, a simple pine box strewn with powder-blue forget-me-nots.

Weeks passed, and the emails from his professors and committee accumulated, unread, as well as the calls from his lab. He lost his job, and was eventually informed politely but firmly by his committee that it would be wise for him to take a leave of absence. Finally, breaking a hand through the ice that had seemingly formed around him, he realized the damage he had inflicted on his own progress. He needed to take a break.

That leave of absence resulted in Bilbo eventually unenrolling from the program. Months later, when the wan English sun began to peak out from behind the clouds, he declined an invitation to serve as a field tech for the summer season at a dig site he'd been working at for years. _Just a bit more time, _he told himself, for months. Eventually, running dangerously low on funds, he officially moved out of his cramped London studio and back into his mother's house. He had already been living there for nearly half a year, only returning once to his little apartment to collect his clothes, toiletries and various other scarce belongings, frowning guiltily at the dessicated plants on the windowsills. Only his pothos had survived, emerald green leaves withered and pale but clinging to life in the dim light of his bathroom window. He scooped it up with a whispered apology and closed the door for the last time on his cozy little studio.

His mother's house always used to feel cozy to him, but in the months that followed her death it was a cold and lonely cave collecting dust, haunted by the memories of Belladonna and Bilbo's childhood. Open boxes sat half-empty and scattered around the house, the furniture collected dust, and the round kitschy mirrors Bilbo's mother had loved so much were shrouded in rough, pilled blankets from the back of the closet. Finally, after subsisting largely on Chinese takeout - and then ramen when even that became too expensive - Bilbo ran out of money. His familiar anxiety began to override the fog of depression that he had been crushed beneath for the past half a year. He needed money, and asking his aunts or cousins for help was simply out of the question.

Bilbo's first inclination was to search for cultural resource management jobs. He'd screwed up by losing the lab assistant job, but he was a solid field and lab technician, and hoped that his past performance both in the macrobot lab and on his digs would make up for his marked absence from both academic and field work for so long. Plus, at this point he would take what he could get - he enjoyed fieldwork and he was good at it, though he had never gone on a dig in the UK. Ever since he had been a child, Bilbo had been fascinated by the history and mythology of the Americas. He had been lucky enough to score a spot on a dig at a monumental site on the desert coast of Peru back when he was completing his bachelor's degree in Anthropology. Though he had been interested in pre-Columbian cultures before then, he had truly fallen in love with the country while on his dig, and dove deep into the ancient history of the region.

Unfortunately, the companies conducting fieldwork where he lived were few and far between, and none were interested in an archaeologist that hardly knew his Roman Republic from his Roman Empire artifacts. Companies that might have taken him were closer to London and offered no housing and puny per diem rates, hardly a livable situation. In the end he resigned himself to applying for teaching positions. It wasn't that he hated teaching, in fact, he had once enjoyed it...but he didn't want to drift away from conducting material science research. He never felt more alive than when traveling through South America, taking in the monumental and awe-inspiring remains scattered across the nation's jungles, snowy peaks, and scorching desert valleys. He didn't want to lose the opportunity to continue his adventures...but after having his mother so unceremoniously torn from him, he felt rooted to the spot. And then there was the reminder that she too had been a teacher, a painful memory that constantly floated to the forefront of his mind every time he researched teaching positions. It hurt, and always reminded him of her, but he soon realized that he could no longer suppress the memory of her death, lest he risk losing the memory of _her._ Living in her home felt like both a curse and a necessity for survival. He needed to keep what little of her was left.

And so he sought out teaching positions. Months passed and he got his teaching certification. And finally, the calls started coming in for interviews. With his first paycheck as a highschool anthropology teacher, he bought a much needed load of groceries, cursing as he opened the refrigerator door and realized he would need to clean out both his own weeks to months old Chinese food remains as well as the scattered items (no doubt on their way to evolving into new multi-cellular organisms) his mother had left before she passed away. The act of cleaning the sad little fridge was oddly therapeutic, and awoke something in Bilbo. That weekend he finished packing up the boxes, handling his mother's clothes and personal belongings gingerly before sealing the boxes and labeling them meticulously, piling them under the pull-down stairs for the attic. He dusted her wooden furniture, an eclectic mix of pieces of varying color, styles, and shapes that she had picked up from second-hand stores over the decades. He wiped the grime from the picture frames above the fireplace, swallowing the anxiety and guilt that churned his stomach and weighed heavy on his soul. He took out her silly lace doilies, such an antiquity, and laid them across the mantle. He lifted the blankets from the mirrors, opened the windows, and lit the fat white candlesticks sitting on the shelves, half-burnt globs of dried wax coating shiny brass candle-holders.

It wasn't even a fraction of what it was when _she _was there - bringing the very walls of the house alive with her sharp and wild spirit - but it was something. It was a sliver of hope.

And so, Bilbo found himself in a significantly cozier iteration of his mother's little cottage during the beginnings of a crisp fall, nearly 3 years to the date since he had suffered his breakdown and returned home. He now taught at a middle school as a geology teacher, drawing on his knowledge and experience as a lab technician analyzing soil cores, and kept himself busy in the summers as a camp coordinator for a local science camp. It was...exhausting. There were aspects of it that he loved, but ultimately he couldn't deny that he felt unfulfilled. He missed his adventures, he missed working under the desert sun, feeling the sand and soil beneath his fingers give way to the smooth finish of a ceramic pot, or the sandpapery texture of a bone. There was nothing quite like the excitement of adventure and discovery.

And although he did like teaching, his jobs as a middle school teacher and camp educator always left him in charge of dozens of kids at once, hardly a suitable environment for really connecting with the children on a personal level, and igniting in them the deep love of science and archaeology that he held. Although, he reflected, his mother had never had trouble with it. She had been a schoolteacher when Bilbo was growing up, and a brilliant one at that. Her former students, later in their teens and even twenties, would often reach out to her and stop by the house because she had made such a lasting impact in their lives. It was really remarkable to Bilbo how large of an influence she had been for these kids. Belladonna Took had often been regarded by the sleepy little town (and many of his Baggins cousins, aunts and uncles) as a little too wild, a little too bright-eyed and opinionated. His aunt Lobelia never failed to bring up her "wild past" when she had "run off" to serve in the Peace Corps in the Philippines, helping to build a school and then serving as an educator. The Baggins had collectively released a sigh of relief when she had returned, finally married her sweetheart, and decided to become a teacher and a mother. And lucky that she did, because she had inspired so many kids to grow up and pursue their dreams, including Bilbo.

He didn't realize until he had moved to London for university and met new people with radically different upbringings than his own that his mother had made such an important impact in his life. Of course, he didn't know either that the last time he kissed his mother goodbye, a warm but hasty action as he hurried out the old green door to catch his bus - he needed to get on the road to be back in time to make an evening lecture - that it would be the last time he would ever see her face, hear her voice, feel the warmth of her wrinkled skin. He supposed that one could never really tell when even the smallest or most mundane moment or occurrence in one's life would mark a turning point to a new phase in one's story that they could never predict.


	2. Chapter 1

Bilbo found himself thinking of his mother once again, mind floating far away in a cloud of nostalgia as he pulled a fresh batch of lemon tea biscuits out of the oven. The heavenly smell of lemon zest, butter and cream delighted his senses as the hot blast of air brought him back to reality.

That, and the three sharp raps at the door, causing him to nearly jump out of his skin as the sound echoed down the kitchen hallway.

"_Shit!" _Bilbo hissed as he searched for a hotplate to place under the pan full of cookies. "Who on earth could that be?"

If it was Lobelia, maybe he could just pretend to be gone - or dead. Whatever would work to send her away. He couldn't imagine who else would be paying him, the village hermit, a visit. He finally located a hotplate and put it down on his mother's worn stone counter, wary of scorching the surface with the pan. Bilbo heaved a deep sigh; just as his heart rate began to slow - believing that the unwanted visitor had went on their way - and another sharp knock reverberated through the small space. Bilbo nearly knocked the hot tray off the counter, so alarmed was his state. His clumsy jerk did not send the cookies flying, but did result in the soft skin on the back of his hand making contact with the hot metal.

He let out a short, exasperated shriek of frustration and cradled his reddened skin. He snatched a bag of frozen peas from the freezer and stalked to the front door, thoroughly disturbed and ready to give whoever refused to leave him in peace a piece of his flustered mind. He swung open the heavy wooden door with all the force he could muster, voice already raising as he muttered "Would you stop that incessant knocking…"

And froze on the spot as his eyes processed the tall stranger outside his door.

Except it wasn't a stranger, he thought suddenly, though for the life of him he couldn't say who the man was. There was something familiar in the eyes, he thought. Otherwise the man had a strange appearance - a somewhat scruffy looking grey beard devoured the lower half of his face - it might at one point have been dignified, but at present looked wiry and frizzy, stark white and silver strands strewn haphazardly throughout. His hair was about the same: a grey and white mane fell in loose waves to his upper arms. It looked a bit more tamed than the beard, though the same brilliant silver strands ran through it. He was dressed in a long, grey trench coat and black beret to shield him from the misty English weather, and plaid trousers with a nice pair of leather shoes. Bilbo's eyes trailed up to his face - at first frozen in surprise at the abrupt opening of the door, but now splitting in an impossibly large grin that Bilbo couldn't help but be a tad alarmed by.

"Bilbo Baggins!" the stranger (but not stranger?) bellowed as he beamed at Bilbo, his deep and booming voice startling Bilbo once again (and good lord, he was jumpy today).

Bilbo stood with his hand on the door, mouth agape as the man smiled at him, familiar and friendly eyes crinkling in amusement. Who was this man at his door? Why did he know Bilbo's name? And more importantly - what did he want? Just as Bilbo was about to voice some of the questions flitting through his mind, the stranger spoke again.

"Well, well, it's been many years since I've seen your face, and you were quite a bit smaller at the time...but your manners were a bit better!" the man boomed, in a jesting tone. Bilbo simply stared, affronted.

"Well...are you going to let me in? It's a bit…" the man paused, twitching the thick mustache on his lip and gazing around at the gloom, "...damp, out here."

"Uh…um. Yes, sure - I suppose. Well-" Bilbo sputtered, feeling at a complete loss for words as the bearded stranger happily accepted his invitation and walked inside, shedding his hat and coat on his mother's coat rack with such ease and familiarity that Bilbo's suspicions grew.

"Erm...I'm sorry, but...who are you...exactly?" Bilbo managed, his heart racing with anxiety. He tried to physically slow his breathing before speaking again. "I don't remember you, I'm sorry. But you seem to remember me."

His guest looked up at him in what Bilbo could only imagine must have been thinly-veiled surprise, before the look was wiped away and replaced with the same smile, though perhaps somewhat diminished.

"Well, my apologies! Of course, you were so young the last time you saw me, and I had quite a bit less hair…" he trailed off, stroking his chin, before he caught sight of Bilbo's anxious expression and cleared his throat, continuing hastily, "my name is Gandalf Grey. I was a colleague and...good friend of your mother's. I used to-"

Bilbo couldn't help but interrupt, the pieces suddenly falling back into place as he took in the plaid pants and nice shoes, the oxford-style suit jacket that had been revealed when Gandalf removed his coat.

"Gandalf! I remember you! You used to come around the house so often when I was young - back when I was in primary school. How...how do you do?" he petered out a bit lamely, still in shock at this man that he hadn't set eyes on in over a decade suddenly standing in his mother's house.

Of course, how did he not recognize him? His mother used to have Gandalf over for tea at least once a month..._Well it might be that ridiculous Santa Claus beard and hairdo that had me fooled..._he thought, excusing himself for not immediately recognizing the man.

"I am well, dear Bilbo, thank you for asking. Though, ah...I admit that it is I who should be asking about you…" Gandalf looked uncomfortable, suddenly, as he rubbed at his long grey whiskers. "Could I trouble you for a cup of tea? The journey here left a terrible chill in me, and I would love to sit and reminisce in Belladonna's lovely kitchen…"

Bilbo felt his heart give a painful thud at the mention of his mother's name, but nodded wordlessly, beckoning Gandalf to follow him as he padded down the hallway to the kitchen. The smell of the lemon biscuits filled the room and calmed him as he turned on the electric kettle. Once he had placed a few spoonfuls of his favorite loose-leaf chamomile in tea ball and pulled out his mother's sturdy white teapot, he found himself out of things to fiddle with. He ran his fingertips over the little blue forget-me-nots painted painstakingly on the white glazed surface before sighing and turning to face his guest.

"So…" he began, twisting his fingers about each other as he was wont to do when the anxiety inside him grew and threatened to crash over his head like a wave. "I hope I'm not coming off as rude...but, well- um. It's been over a decade since I've seen you and...and while you may have been a close friend of my mother's at one point, I don't seem to recall my mum...my mother talking about you much. So I suppose...I just wonder what brings you here, Gandalf."

Bilbo cursed his stilted speech, forcing his hands down to his side when he felt the urge to fidget once more. Gandalf hardly seemed to notice, though. He actually looked a bit guilty, and heaved a deep sigh as he looked down at his hands.

"Bilbo...I am so sorry about the death of your mother, and so very sorry that I could not come to the funeral, I am filled with regret that I never got the chance to properly say goodbye to her," Gandalf paused, looking up at Bilbo with a mournful expression.

"You see...my work, it has kept me away from home for far too long. Bella was always so supportive of my projects, and I used to come back whenever I could to visit, but...ah, the time passes so quickly."

Bilbo could feel his frown deepening. He didn't mean to glare at Gandalf, but listening to him talk about Bilbo's mother gnawed at the hole in his chest, tearing at the flimsy stitching he'd been doing with little bits of self care for the past couple of years. The kettle clicked off silently and he turned around, closing his eyes for a moment and trying to regain his composure. He intently focused on pouring the hot water into the pot, watching the leaves slowly diffuse as Gandalf continued.

"I feel as though I should explain. Your mother and I met when she was working in the Philippines. I was doing an anthropological study on the agricultural methods of the indigenous people there. I was so fascinated by every new culture I encountered, wanting to take notes endlessly and learn as much as I could from observation. But your mother...she was kind, and fierce, and compassionate. She admonished me for treating the people like subjects in an experiment. She made me talk to people more, get to know them personally. She changed my whole perspective as an anthropologist, and rightly so, I'd think. You should know as well as any young archaeologist how set in our problematic ways some of us old codgers can be. We must continue to evolve as a field!" Gandalf brought his fist down with a bit more force than intended against the wooden kitchen table, causing a vase to rattle, and Bilbo to flinch.

"Goodness me." He quickly righted it, looking sheepish.

Bilbo didn't speak, but his mood and countenance had softened at hearing this tale of his mother's compassion and fierce commitment to justice. He wordlessly placed a saucer with a cup of steaming tea in front of Gandalf, and then turned back to the counter to arrange the freshly-baked biscuits on a plate.

Gandalf was silent for a moment and then chuckled, lifting the cup from the saucer.

"Chamomile, that was her favorite, wasn't it? I recall that she didn't appreciate my pointing out that an herbal blend is not-"

"Tea?" Bilbo finished with a derisive snort, turning around and placing the plate of biscuits on the table. "Yes, I think she heard that one quite a lot, and gave a rat's arse about what others thought about her choice of beverage."

Gandalf smiled, a genuine grin, and picked up a biscuit. "Yes, that was how she felt on most matters. She was such a truly delightful woman."

Bilbo felt the fight drain out of him as he sat down across from Gandalf with his own cup of tea. He mostly just felt tired, and sensitive - as if one too many shared memories could rip him back open again.

"Good heavens Bilbo, these biscuits are divine!" Gandalf exclaimed, crumbs cascading down his wiry beard. "But I digress. The reason that I came here was to apologize to you, and express my condolences at you having lost your mother. She was a lovely woman and I wish I had stayed in better contact. These last few years I wanted to reach out to you so badly, but, er - political tensions have been high in the country I've been working in...I've been very preoccupied. But I needed to get back here to see you, and I'm so glad that I did."

Bilbo took a long, slow sip of tea while he processed Gandalf's words and carefully formulated a response.

"Well, thank you, I suppose. That is very thoughtful of you." he paused, nibbling at a biscuit. "But it's been...quite some time since her - since she passed. I'm...I've moved on, somewhat. I'm er...teaching now."

Gandalf smiled at him, looking pleased.

"I'd heard. An honorable profession. I was never very good at it. Though, the last I'd heard from Bella you were quite the jetsetter - she told me you'd been all over South and Central America on digs. I see those books I got you paid off," he winked at Bilbo.

He was right about the books, Bilbo had to admit. When he was around 10 years old, Gandalf had gifted him a set of glossy picture books filled with images of larger than life geoglyphs in the Peruvian desert, intricately crafted facepots of the Moche, and the labyrinthine tunnels below the temple of Chavin de Huantar. He also received a heavy, thick-bound tome with a comprehensive history/art history of the Aztec Empire. Bilbo had ravenously consumed all of the books throughout the following years.

"So you've decided on teaching then?" Gandalf continued, breaking Bilbo from his reverie. "Not that you're not suited for it, no, I believe any son of Bella's would be up for the task. But from what she'd told me...well, I thought you'd be leading your own digs by now. It sounds like you were well on your way."

Bilbo recoiled, feeling guilt and shame unfurling in his gut. The wave of anxiety rose up inside of him once more.

"Yes, well. Things happen. Evidently I wasn't cut out for it," he managed, through gritted teeth.

Gandalf frowned, brow furrowed.

"Oh, I don't think that at all." His expression softened, those infuriatingly kind and searching eyes locking onto Bilbo's. "I...heard what happened. With your program. And you should know, there is no shame in knowing when to step back and take time for yourself. However, if I knew Bella at all, I know that her son might not find fulfillment in a life teaching secondary school students and living in the house in the very backwoods town he sought to escape."

Bilbo felt his temper flare. His eyes narrowed.

"Oh, do you know me? Because it seems to me that we are pretty much strangers. Yet you presume to make decisions for my life, in the name of my dead mum who you never bothered to check on in the last ten years?!"

Gandalf looked taken aback, and then a pained expression crossed his face. Bilbo already regretted his outburst, but he would not take it back. Who was this man, who considered himself so important as to burst into Bilbo's peaceful life and rip open old wounds - and then proceed to tell him what he should be doing with his life?

"Bilbo, please," Gandalf started, voice even. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you - you're right, I should have been more involved in your mother's life, especially towards the end. Like you, I did not think that she had so little time...but, regardless, there is another reason that I came here. All this about your teaching was to say that I may have a job opportunity for you, if you are not too tired of teaching, and if you think you could be ready to transition back into field and lab work."

Bilbo felt his heart give a little flip. He didn't even know what Gandalf was offering yet, but his physiological reaction seemed to betray what he had been telling himself for the last few years, that he was content with this life, doing this job, living in this house…

Bilbo crossed his arms and quirked a brow, silently urging Gandalf to go on.

"Do you know where I work, Bilbo?" Gandalf asked.

Bilbo snorted, not sure where this was leading. "Where haven't you worked? Last I'd heard you've directed digs or worked for other projects in Mexico, Guatemala, Belize, Peru, Cambodia...and apparently the Philippines."

"Yes, well." Gandalf cleared his throat. "I suppose Cambodia was the last site you would have remembered. After I concluded my research in Asia, I decided to take a trip to Turkey, visit some spectacular sites I'd never gotten around to seeing. While I was there, I caught word of an intriguing excavation of a 6th Century Achaemenid Empire site...in a small country bordering Armenia and Azerbaijan."

"Wha...you mean Georgia?" Bilbo asked, scrunching his nose as he struggled to recall the geography of the Caucuses. It was not an area he'd done much research in.

"No…" Gandalf looked excited, there was a spark in his eyes as he spoke about the project. "It's called Erebor. An insular little country that values its privacy, and is nearly impassible with its mountainous terrain. It's a very interesting little nation with a lot of wealth and rich history. But here's what's really intriguing."

Bilbo was, to his great annoyance, intrigued.

"The site turned out to be not at all what we thought. Not Achaemenid at all...something entirely different. Something...new. And unique to Erebor."

Despite himself, Bilbo's heart began to race. An undiscovered culture? Right smack in the middle of such a thoroughly explored region? The mountains must have played a role in keeping it hidden, as well as the insular nature of the country.

Gandalf pressed on, seemingly encouraged by Bilbo's interest.

"Erebor is where I've been for the past...well, decade, I suppose. We've been working on deciphering an ancient written language...one we've never seen the likes of before. In appearance it's somewhat reminiscent of cuneiform, but the similarities end there. It's fascinating!"

"So, are you trying to invite me on a dig, then?" Bilbo ventured, hesitant.

"Well…" Gandalf paused, taking an infuriatingly long sip from his teacup. "Not quite...at the moment."

Bilbo sighed. _Of course, _he thought. _Of course it was too good to be true._

"So the point of telling me all of this was...what? To rub it in? You're living the dream while I'm trying to get 12 year olds interested in rocks?"

"No…! Of course not. I would never brag. You see, the political situation in Erebor is...complicated right now."

"Complicated how?"

"Complicated in that it is too complex to describe in one sitting!" Gandalf grumbled, and then quickly devoured another biscuit before continuing. "You see, my contact in Erebor, the one who got me on the dig...is a man named Thorin Durin. I met him while traveling in Turkey. He's an architect, and a lover of ancient history, particularly Ereborian history. He is also the grandson of the Minister of Culture, a member of the elite oligarchic class. You know how these post-soviet states go."

Bilbo felt uneasy. What kind of foreign affairs was Gandalf wrapped up in? This sounded already terribly complicated, and Bilbo had a feeling things were just going to get hairier.

"Thorin's father Thrain disappeared under mysterious circumstances about ten years ago. He had strongly opposed the isolationist positions of the government and of _his _father - Thror." Gandalf drew the name out with a sneer. "Thror is a corrupt man with no interest beyond lining his own pockets and keeping Erebor cut off from outsiders, no matter the cost. Thorin, much like his father, disagrees. He wants to share this incredible discovery with the world, and that's what he has been trying to facilitate by funding this project so that perhaps we can get some linguists involved to decipher this ancient language...and get some decent field techs to analyze the tons of artifacts we've bagged and tagged over the years."

"Well, anyway, that's what he _had _been doing, before an assasination attempt was made on his and his two young nephews' lives."

Bilbo gasped. "Who tried to kill them?"

"Well," Gandalf began, uneasily, "that is...unclear, at the moment."

Bilbo's eyes narrowed. He sensed Gandalf was not telling the whole truth, but also that he was unlikely to drag out any more details from his visitor on that particular topic. He waited for Gandalf to continue.

"Thorin expressed to me on multiple occasions that he would have left the country long ago were it not for the discovery of the site. Its presence and what it could mean for Erebor kept him there, but the corruption of the ruling class to which he was directly related sickened him. He did not want to take on a leadership role and he did not want to stay. The attempt on his nephews' lives was what finally prompted him to leave...and move to London."

Bilbo sat silently, brain buzzing as he struggled to process all of the information as Gandalf went on to explain that Thorin had moved into an elegant and spacious townhouse in London with his sister, Dís, and her children Fíli and Kíli, who were 13 and 8 years old, respectively. He explained that the boys' father had died many years ago, and Dis and Thorin were essentially raising them. Thorin continued to work as an architect, and Dis found a job in the Ereborian Embassy in London. Both of them had become very busy; though they had lived in comfort in Erebor, they had only been able to take some of their wealth with them, and they no longer had the privilege of existing in the ruling class.

And then, Gandalf dropped the bomb - the real reason, Bilbo assumed, that he had paid a visit.

"They need a nanny...well, more of a private tutor slash supervisor...a nanny-tutor, if you will."

Bilbo just blinked at him a few times in confusion, not sure why Gandalf was including this particular tidbit of information, and looking so expectantly at Bilbo. And then realization dawned on him.

"Oh - uh. Excuse me, what? You want me to be a nanny?" Bilbo couldn't help but laugh. The situation was just too ridiculous.

"Well, more of a tutor to be exact. You see, the boys - Fíli and Kíli - they had private tutors back in Erebor, their quality of education was quite excellent-"

"I'm sure it was," Bilbo interrupted, rolling his eyes. "Quality of education always goes up when you're filthy rich."

Gandalf chuckled lowly, pulling out a beautifully carved wooden pipe, and a distinctive sour smell drifted into Bilbo's nostrils. He wanted to laugh again, this situation was so bizarre. An old man from his childhood who hadn't spoken to him in over ten years showed up at his doorstep, told Bilbo he was unfulfilled in his life, instructed him to become a _glorified babysitter, _and then proceeded to pull out some skunk and a piece.

Gandalf stopped what he was doing as he pulled a small pouch out of his pocket and suddenly looked a tad sheepish. "Oh, my apologies Bilbo. Belladonna and I always used to have a smoke during these conversations in her kitchen. I suppose I did it out of habit. Would you terribly mind?"

Bilbo did let a small giggle loose now, how couldn't he? This situation was so ridiculous it might've been a dream. _Perhaps,_ he thought,_ I will wake up any minute now and the school year will have started, and I will be late to my first class._

"Oh bugger it. Why not. As long as you share."

Gandalf smiled and lit the pipe, taking a long drag and exhaling through his nostrils. He passed the delicate wooden pipe to Bilbo, who grasped it carefully. It had been at least a year since he'd last smoked; he had done it habitually every day right after his mum's death, but when he got the teaching jobs he simply didn't have the time, and he certainly couldn't come to work like that. He had definitely never smoked out of an old-timey tobacco pipe, and thought it amusing that Gandalf did.

Gandalf continued, slowly, as Bilbo puffed lightly at the lightweight pipe.

"Thorin would like an experienced educator, one who has proficiency and understanding of multiple scientific fields, as well as the arts - particularly architectural and art history, with anthropological training as a desired bonus." Gandalf paused, grinning with a touch of mischief at Bilbo. "How is that treating you, dear boy?"

Bilbo fought back a smile and rolled his eyes, indeed much mellowed by the smoky haze descending upon him. He had forgotten just how well weed worked for his anxiety.

_This was probably all part of Gandalf's plan, _he mused. _Get me high and then sell me your pitch._

It was a good plan. Bilbo already felt his interest piqued.

"Good, good. Well, as I was saying...You are an experienced educator, in all of those fields, and what's more, you have experience in child care. Specifically in the care of late primary and early secondary students! Precisely the right age group. The only 'nannying' qualities the job would require are-"

"Wait, how do you know so much about my job history?" Bilbo interrupted, though somewhat more subdued than his previous interjections had been.

"Well, I may have...looked you up before visiting," Gandalf held up his hands in defense. "I was curious! And I thought that you might have been a good person for the job before I even knew about your camp educator experience!"

"Alright. Weird, but continue."

"Thank you. I would like to emphasize that the only nannying you'll have to do is watching the boys after school and making sure that they get a decent dinner...as well as watching them on the weekends. The Durins have very busy and long days, and want to make sure that Kíli and Fíli get the attention and the education that they deserve."

Galdalf paused, picking up the pipe from where Bilbo had placed it on the table and taking another long drag.

"Also...Thorin has not given up on returning to Erebor, and completing the project, bringing in outside scientists...but he needs time to figure out how he's going to do it, and he does not feel safe in Erebor right now. However, when I told him I had a successful archaeologist that might be on board for the job of tutor, he seemed open to the idea of you coming to work on the project once you had proven yourself as a tutor."

Bilbo was having trouble processing all of this. It took him at least three seconds after Gandalf finished talking to realize that he was the "successful archaeologist" the man was referring to. He was hardly successful...a better epithet for him might have been "jack of all trades, master of none."

But…

It was true that he met the requirements for the job, easily. Between short teaching and substitute gigs he had taught just about all of those subjects, and had taken a multitude of classes on a graduate level in others. Plus, he really did like education, but teaching a classroom of 25 restless 12 year olds was overwhelming and felt more like herding sheep. He really relished the opportunity to work one-on-one with students or in small groups. He could teach these young boys all about the archaeology and art of South America, instill in them a passion for adventure and appreciation of global cultures as well.

But he couldn't just uproot his life, quit his job, and move to London on a whim. He would be closer to some old friends, sure, but would they even want to see him? And what would he do with the house? He certainly didn't want it falling into the greedy hands of Aunt Lobelia, who would surely sell all of his mother's possessions. And would he have to been a live-in nanny? Would he be required to live with these stuffy nobility in their ostentatious apartment with the memory of barely keeping himself afloat and surviving on takeout in his early teaching days? He thought not. He had no love for the obscenely wealthy.

"Oh...and did I mention the salary? It's quite large." Gandalf rummaged around in his pants pocket for a moment before producing a somewhat wrinkled square of paper, which he carefully unfolded and slid across the table to Bilbo.

Once he was able to take his eyes off of the impressive blue and silver crest heading the page, his eyes slid down to the bottom of the contract, where the yearly salary was highlighted in yellow.

"Oh my God," Bilbo cried, covering his mouth with his hand.

He could pay off more than half of his debt with this.

"And the Durins are happy to pay you a small stipend for housing, so that you may find an apartment in the city. As I've said, even though they may not hold the isolationist viewpoints of Throrin's grandfather, they are a private people, and uncomfortable with the idea of a stranger coming to live with them."

Bilbo could hardly even process what Gandalf was saying; he was still staring at the multi-figure salary on the page before him. This could be precisely the push he needed to get back into academia, even if getting to work in Erebor didn't pan out...Yes, he might be able to talk to some faculty, re-enroll…

And then he remembered what his therapist had said to him, in the one session he attended at his aunt's insistence following his mother's death. She had been a sharp-featured woman, silver white hair loosely braided behind her, which only served to highlight her severe brow and high cheekbones, and Bilbo had felt like a lab specimen beneath her gaze. She asked him if he ever felt like his adventures were just excuses, reasons to keep running away. When he had snorted and indignantly asked her what, pray tell, was he running away from, she simply offered him cryptic smile and said, "you tell me." He had never come back, and had hardly stopped thinking of the conversation and what she meant for years afterwards.

"Gandalf…" he began, pinching at the bridge of his nose as he felt the beginnings of a headache. "I...this job does sound nice. And yes, I could probably handle it, but...I need to stop running away from my life. This is my life now: I live in Hobbiton, I teach secondary kids science, and I don't drop everything to run off on the next adventure everytime one presents itself. That's not how adults handle their problems. It's not...healthy."

Bilbo was surprised at how resentful his voice sounded. He hadn't meant it to.

After a moment of contemplative silence, Gandalf began to knock out the ashes of his pipe into a wastebasket by his chair, and then slowly rose.

"All I can ask, dear Bilbo, is that you consider this offer. I think it would be, if anything, a nice change of pace. You might even come to find that you love it."

"I'll...think about it." Bilbo muttered, rising to collect dishes from the table. "But no promises. I like the stability I have now, I really do."

Gandalf simply nodded and hummed, turning to walk down the short hallway to the front door and retrieve his jacket.

"I believe you Bilbo." he slid the grey trenchcoat and hat back on, pausing for a moment to look outside at the quickly darkening sky.

"Just make sure that you make up your mind within the next week and a half or so. Thorin has been antsy to get someone in the position before the school year starts."

"A week and-" Bilbo started to sputter, indignant.

"Here is the contract! I believe both of the Durins' emails are on there. Make sure to reach out to both." Gandalf pressed the folded paper from earlier into Bilbo's hands, ignoring his host's attempts to question him on his earlier statement. "It was so lovely to be in Bella's home once more, with the wide-eyed child I remember grown into a sensible and intelligent young man! Thank you for the tea, and your hospitality! Now I really must run. Take care, Bilbo!"

Gandalf was out the door before he finished his sentence.

"Uh...goodbye…" Bilbo muttered at the man's retreating form as he ran for his car through the lightly drizzling rain.

He watched Gandalf's little silver car pull out of the gravel driveway and speed off, and wondered if it was about time to wake up from that dream, now.

It rained for the rest of the night, and neither a warm supper, tea, nor curling up with his favorite book could distract him from the anxiety that clenched and unclenched his gut.

_Am I seriously considering this? _He thought to himself, something similar to butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

He slammed his book shut with a huff and placed it on his coffee table. He then headed to his mother's sturdy pine bookshelf. He had filled the antique with his personal library, but several stacks of books were still piled haphazardly on the floor. He couldn't yet bear to take down his mother's books from the shelves and make room for some of his own.

He pulled out a dusty atlas and turned to a map of Eastern Europe and Asia, placing the large tome on the table. There it was, the tiny nation sandwiched between Armenia and Azerbaijan, barely noticeable if you weren't looking for it. The entire country looked as though it was in the mountains; there didn't appear to be any flatlands at all. He looked up the entry for the country and found it quite lacking. The only significant information that he discovered was that despite the strong role religion played in it's neighboring countries, the majority of the country's population was listed as "non-religious" while a small minority was vaguely labeled "other."

Frustrated and not much in the mood for dry, historical readings, Bilbo opened his laptop and googled "Thorin Durin." It took quite a few combinations of search word (adding "Erebor" to his search hadn't revealed anything about Thorin, but quite a few hits came up regarding Thror Durin) until he finally stumbled across the website of the architectural firm that Thorin worked for. He felt vaguely like a cyber-stalker as he combed through the website, finally finding a staff page. About halfway down the page was a pixelated portrait next to the name "T. Durin" and a woefully short bio consisting of one sentence, describing the work that he did. Though the portrait was small, and blurry, Bilbo could tell that Thorin was an attractive man. He had a curly mane of dark hair tied behind him, framing his handsome face. A square jaw set with a frown, with a light beard and pale blue eyes overhung with thick black brows.

_Of course. _Bilbo thought, _He's nobility, essentially. Don't know what I expected. I'm sure he has an ego about it too._

Bilbo don't know what it was in the end that compelled him to send the email to the Durins. Perhaps it was the two glasses of red wine he had downed after he had given up on tea.

The short missive expressed his interest in hearing more about the position and what exactly the responsibilities would entail. His manners were impeccable in writing, as always, though he fretted for a while on how to address the two siblings before deciding on simple titles with their full names. He attached his CV, resume, and one of his best teaching evaluations for good measure. Finally, he made sure to thoroughly proofread it before sending it off, on extra alert due to his slight tipsiness.

Only after he had sent it off did he allow himself to fully realize what he'd done.

"I've not committed yet…" he muttered to himself, turning his wine glass upside down to catch the last few drops.

He found himself doing some research on Erebor's history and culture over the next hour and a half - which eventually resulted in an extensive google image search of its topography. It was almost unfairly idyllic and beautiful. He had been right, the entire country was situated in a range of sharp peaks that jutted from the landscape, called the "Misty Mountains" in English. He hadn't struggled with the elevation sickness as much as some of his colleagues when he was working in the highlands of Peru, but he wondered if these peaks were even taller than the Andes.

Just as he was about to take a sip from his third glass of wine, a notification popped up on his desktop, reading "Re: Inquiry about tutor position, From: Thorin Durin." Bilbo's stomach flipped uncomfortably as he hovered his mouse over the panel. He took a deep swig of the wine, grimacing as he opened the email.

"Mr. Baggins,

Mr. Grey informed me that I might be hearing from you. As you may know, I would like to expedite this process. Your qualifications seem sufficient for the position, but I would like to speak to you in person. If you are available this Saturday, come in for an interview at your earliest convenience (reply to this email with the time you will be arriving). Be prepared to meet the boys as well."

The address to the townhouse and parking directions where written beneath. Bilbo raised his eyebrows when he recognized the street name. _Well, I knew they were rich…_

The email was signed "Sincerely, Thorin Durin." Bilbo knew it was petty, but reading Thorin's reply had felt a bit anti-climatic. He understood that the other man didn't yet know him, and Gandalf had said that Ereborians had a tendency to be a bit cagey with outsiders, but surely a little bit of politeness in the email wouldn't have killed him?

_He could have at least said 'please,' _thought Bilbo, sipping at his wine absently.

He couldn't stay mad for long, though...despite Thorin's curt email he was all but certain the job was his, if he wanted it. His head spun, and he was sure it wasn't from the wine. What was he even doing? What was he thinking?

He closed his laptop with a thump, and placed it down on the coffee table where the atlas was still opened to the page on Erebor. Looking at the small outline of the country, so far away from where he was now, he couldn't help the smile that creeped onto his face, and shooed away the worried voices in his head demanding answers to his incessant anxieties.

He was going on an adventure.


	3. Chapter 2

Bilbo frowned at his reflection, holding a powder blue tie up to his throat. Sighing, he flung it down onto his bed, and began loosening the green tie around his neck. He hated them both.

Getting dressed to teach his classes was so easy because he really didn't care all that much about how he looked. Same sports jacket, same plain or striped white button up, and a blue, green, or gray tie snug against his neck. He didn't incorporate a lot of variety - he wasn't particularly concerned with impressing 12 year olds.

Except that now he _was_ worried about impressing a 13 year old, though more accurately, that 13 year old's curt uncle who would be signing his paychecks. If he got the job. Bilbo was almost certain that he would, but he could never go into any sort of job interview without feeling terribly anxious.

He surveyed the scene in front of him: several once crisply ironed collared shirts were strewn across the bed, Bilbo's work ties snaking in and out of the fabric. A sad rumpled pair of trousers was half-tossed on the floor. He buried his face in his hands and groaned. How the hell was a tutor-slash-nanny supposed to dress anyway? And did he have to dress really fancy because they were quasi-nobility?

He finally decided that he needed to be comfortable, or he was going to sweat through everything. He always felt like he was slowly asphyxiating when he wore ties to interviews. In the end, he settled on a cozy, cream-colored cable-knit sweater over his dark brown collared shirt and brown trousers. He slipped his well-loved tweed jacket over the sweater and felt a little better when he observed himself in the mirror. It was an outfit he'd often worn to TA during graduate school, back when he really _was _concerned with looking academic yet fashionable to the undergraduates.

He checked his watch and felt his stomach give another little nervous flip. He needed to leave in the next fifteen minutes to make sure he got to London in time to make his meeting at 2. He walked out into his living room and shuffled around for a few minutes, rearranging chachkis and various ephemera on the mantle and bookshelves, trying to find an outlet for his nervous energy. He checked his phone once more to make sure the address was programmed in. He turned to the bookshelf and in a last minute decision, slid out two books from the bottom shelf and carried them with him as he turned and walked out the door, locking it behind him.

Bilbo had forgotten how much he disliked the drive from his mother's house to London. He used to do it a lot more frequently, and could have sworn it felt shorter at the time. Had it always been a three and a half hour drive?

Long drives stressed him out. If he was going to take this job he would need to make sure his mother's house was in good hands, because he didn't plan on returning frequently to take care of it. He had been thinking about that particular conundrum for the last hour or so of his drive before a thought came to him.

Bilbo had generally avoided his extended family (much to their chagrin) over the last couple of years following his mother's death. He found the majority of them, particularly the Sackville-Baggins, to be a nosy and judgemental lot. The Tooks weren't so bad at all, but there weren't many around anymore. There were others that weren't so bad, either. His mind drifted to his second (or was it third?) cousin Drogo Baggins and his lovely wife, Primula. He was the sensible, simple Baggins type - Bilbo seemed to recall that he worked in a fishery. Primula Brandybuck, however, was an artist. He remembered meeting Primula for the first time years ago - it may have been the last Christmas that his mother had felt well enough to host the family. Her and Drogo had shown for his mother's funeral, too; Primula had been very pregnant at the time, and a short time later he recalled seeing a picture on social media of a chubby, rosy-cheeked little boy with dark brown curls and piercing blue eyes.

And then of course, everything had promptly gone to hell in Bilbo's life and he had abandoned social media. Guilt coursed through him; he knew that they didn't have a lot of money, and taking care of a newborn was a lot of work. He wondered if they were still living in that artsy loft apartment in Liverpool - hardly suitable for a son Frodo must have been a toddler by now...and Bilbo still hadn't met him. Bilbo cursed under his breath and made a mental note to himself to drop Drogo and Primula a message when he got home.

_Perhaps I should give the house to them,_ he thought, flipping on his window wipers as the rain began to fall a little more heavily.

_Lobelia would lose her mind. But they would really enjoy it, and really take care of it. And...my mother would have liked that._

His mother hadn't left much in the way of an inheritance - she had hardly had anything left after she passed. The inheritance she left Bilbo was the house, and all of his relatives were greedily lusting after it. It felt only right to let a relative use it that actually deserved it.

_What's the point of planning so far ahead? Don't get your hopes up. You probably won't even get this job, _a little voice hissed in the back of his head.

"Oh, bugger off." he muttered.

By the time he'd made it to the neighborhood full of towering, cream and beige colored townhouses - complete with the cleanest sidewalks Bilbo had ever seen in London - he was nearly late. He was supposed to be meeting the Durins in five minutes, and he had no idea where he was supposed to park. Through the panic, he vaguely remembered the parking directions Thorin had given him, but he didn't have time to pull out his phone, and besides that he likely would have crashed his car in the state he was in. How had he forgotten how traumatizing an experience it was to drive in London?

He realized, as he finally slid his car into a too-small spot, several blocks away in front of a shop, that it was because he had taken the tube or buses everywhere back in his university days.

He rushed out of his car, cursing as heavy raindrops _plunked _down onto his hair. Bilbo grabbed his umbrella and the books, and took off down the sidewalk at a full run. It was 2 o'clock. By the time he reached the townhouse, looking up at a sturdy wooden door stained a deep mahogany color, he had abandoned the umbrella in favor of running a bit faster, and his hair and the shoulders of his jacket were considerably...damper. He had held the books inside of his suit jacket, so they luckily remained undamaged.

Swallowing, he hurried up the steps and paused only for a moment in front of the door before he knocked three times. He felt his heart race as he regarded a small design above the brass knocker: a little acorn with scroll motifs and small, scalloped leaves extending from either side. The design seemed to be crafted from a lighter wood - perhaps pine - and inlaid into the darker wood of the door. It was a fascinating little personalized touch, and just as Bilbo started to wonder at the story behind it, the door abruptly swung open to reveal…

A staircase. Bilbo shifted his vision down, and in front of him stood a child with large brown eyes, rather large ears, and a wide grin which was missing several front teeth. He couldn't have been over 10, so Bilbo assumed this was Kíli. The boy's wavy hair fell to his shoulders and half was tied up in a messy bun at the back of his head. He had a thick, dark pair of eyebrows and his eyes were wide with excitement.

Before Bilbo could even speak, the child released a loud, quick stream of excited words.

"HELLO! Are you Mister Boggins? You're going to be our new nanny, right? I'm Kili! I'm 8 years old! My favorite animal is a giraffe!" Kili paused, sucking on his thumb briefly with a thoughtful look before pulling it out and continuing in a somewhat serious tone. "Pleased to make your amquiantance."

He finished proudly. Bilbo felt his heart lift about 10 kilos at the display.

"Pleased to meet you too, Kili!" he chuckled, bending over slightly to be on eye level with the child as he reached out a hand to shake. "My name is Bilbo Baggins, and yes, I am here to talk to your uncle...and then maybe I will be your new tutor...and nanny, I suppose."

Kili took the proffered hand and shook it vigorously, seeming to not have registered much of what Bilbo had said. Suddenly, his grip tightened on Bilbo's hand and he dragged the other forward into the house with surprising strength for such a little body. Bilbo, who had been slightly bent over to talk with Kili, nearly toppled over as he was pulled inside.

"Come on, then! Uncle is waiting for you!" Kíli finally released Bilbo's hand and beckoned for him to follow as he sped down the hallway past the stairs, socks sliding slightly on the pristine hardwood floors.

Bilbo had sort of hoped for a chance to take in his surroundings a little more, get a tad more comfortable before starting his interview, but he supposed he had ruined that chance by being late. Bilbo quickly deposited his umbrella in the tall holder by the door and followed after the buzzing 8 year old.

Kíli continued to bombard him with questions about his favorite animal, his favorite color, why he was wet, did he believe in aliens, and did he like candy, as he rounded a corner into a bright, open sitting room. Bilbo nearly gasped when he entered - it was like one of those fancy Manhattan apartments you saw featured in magazines: the blonde, thin, wealthy woman standing in a Chanel dress in front of floor to ceiling windows holding a martini.

The room was practically all windows on the South side, minimalist, monochromatic gestural paintings lining the small strips of wall space between them. On one side of the room sat a twin set of wooden bookshelves stained a dark red-brown, lined with expensive looking leather-bound books and a few golden plaques mounted on polished wood. There were also a number of fascinating lithic-looking artifacts atop the shelves that immediately captured Bilbo's attention. They did not look familiar to him. He wanted to get a closer look, but he was late as it was and decided not to push his luck, heading over to a long, plush-looking green velvet sofa that sat across from a large fireplace. The coffee table was a chic slab of marble sitting atop gilded, minimalist crossed legs that disappeared into a fluffy white carpet.

Overall, the room was incredibly tasteful. The wealthy could often be tacky in their decorations, but Bilbo loved this room. A small smile curled on his lips when he spotted a pothos plant hanging high in the corner by the front windows, a three-foot long vine cascading lazily from the suspended pot downwards.

He did not notice Kíli scamper out of the room, nor the tall figure that appeared in the other doorway a few moments later.

"You're late."

Bilbo startled from the noise and whipped around to locate the source of the voice. A man he assumed could only be Thorin Durin stood in the doorway, looking far taller and more unfairly handsome than Bilbo had expected.

The grainy photograph on the website did not do him justice. The man had a stocky build, wide shoulders and thick-muscled arms straining against a deep blue (and thin, quite thin) button down shirt tucked into a close-fitting pair of charcoal gray trousers. Thorin's face and hair also revealed he was a bit older than when the picture was taken - his angular features were recognizable from the photo, but crows feet fanned out at the edges of his steely blue eyes, and thick clusters of silver strands banded his dark wavy hair, which was tied back loosely behind him.

Bilbo swallowed, his brain short-circuiting at the handsome stranger scowling disapprovingly at him from across the room. He felt his palms grow clammy and his stomach dropped as he processed what had actually been said to him.

"Ah...yes, I'm quite sorry. I'm not used to driving in London so um...yes. Well. Apologies, it's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Durin!" Bilbo spluttered, trying desperately to pull himself together.

He cringed in internally listening to the words falling clumsily from his mouth and tried his best not to let it show on his face. Thorin's expression hardly changed as he appraised Bilbo with a steady glare, eyes never leaving him. Bilbo tried his utmost not to squirm.

"I see you've met Kíli. He filled me in on your exchange," Thorin began, his deep voice filling the high-ceilinged room with a pleasant rumble.

He gestured for Bilbo to sit on the couch as he walked into the room, finally offering Bilbo a respite from his intense stare when he looked away.

"But...Kíli just...filled you in? Didn't he just leave the room not 30 seconds ago?"

Thorin looked back up at him as he sat in a lavishly-upholstered tub-style chair adjacent to the couch. Bilbo saw the corner of his mouth twitch upwards in what could have been mistaken for a smile.

"He's adept at relaying information quickly."

Bilbo's offered a hesitant smile as he recalled the boy's initial onslaught of questions.

"Yes, I'd noticed. He seems like a curious lad."

Thorin nodded. "Indeed." His face had returned to it's default expression, which was evidently grumpy and slightly suspicious with a hint of disdain.

There was a moment of awkward silence where Bilbo became acutely aware of the ticking of a clock somewhere in the room. Willing his heart rate to slow down, he spoke again.

"Erm...well, is there uh...anything you'd like to ask me? I'd be happy to speak on my qualifications, though I suppose you're familiar with my resume at this point."

"Mm." Thorin had slipped out a pair of reading glasses from his pocket and opened the manila folder in his hands.

_God Damn it. _Bilbo internally groaned as Thorin slid the glasses onto his face. _ Did he have to be _this _hot? I mean, I expected some baseline hotness but this is bloody cruel._

Thorin was silent for a few moments as he scanned the inside of the folder, and then looked up at Bilbo, eyes slightly narrowed.

"You're wet," he stated, frowning.

"Er...yes. It's...raining."

_Kill me now, _Bilbo thought, nearly crawling out of his skin as Thorin continued to glare at him. _This is so AWKWARD. _

After an agonizing few moments, Thorin cleared his throat.

"Well, Mr. Baggins, I'm sure Gandalf has already informed you of the details of the job. On weekdays you will be responsible for picking the boys up from school, administering their afternoon lessons, ensuring that they eat dinner, helping them with homework as needed, and on some occasions, making sure that they get to bed. On weekends you will generally be on call. You will, on some days, have to watch Fíli and Kíli for the entire day, and arrange daytime activities for them. There will be funds allocated for this." Thorin paused, leaning back and looking over his glasses at Bilbo. "This all sounds acceptable so far?"

Bilbo started, not expecting the question. "Oh, yes! Of course."

He realized after he answered that he would likely have to drive to pick the boys up from their respective schools, and he felt his anxiety spike at the prospect. He decided to keep that to himself for now, Thorin did not seem the overly-sympathetic type.

"Good," Thorin said, looking back down at the file in his hands. "And the subjects you are tutoring…I have no doubt that you will be able to help Kíli with all of his work, and Fíli with his history and art, but you will also need a passable knowledge of chemistry. Will this be an issue?"

Bilbo felt his face heat slightly at the comment. The nervousness from before was slipping away, annoyance taking its place. He smiled politely, forcing himself to keep his tone even.

"My current job involves teaching kids a bit of chemistry. I'm a geology instructor at a secondary school near Sheffield."

"Yes...I was informed," Thorin drawled, ignoring Bilbo in favor of looking down into the file he was holding.

Handsome or not, Thorin's rudeness was not a good look, and Bilbo could feel his patience waning. He had worked hard for his achievements, and he had done quite well in school.

"But Fíli is taking an upper-level chemistry class. He's quite gifted in the sciences, so he will need a tutor who is...more professionally trained."

An indignant heat rose in Bilbo's chest and his lips tightened as the polite smile became forced.

"I worked as a lab assistant elementally sourcing obsidian from a volcanic valley in Mexico using portable X-Ray Fluorescence technology. I was also trained in the use of Inductively Coupled Plasma Mass Spectrometry to ionize paint samples from ceramics to determine if they were forgeries. Oh, and I processed the data for both of these projects in a statistical analysis program. Do you think that's _sufficient?"_

Bilbo smiled sweetly, though his guts were twisted in a tight knot of anxiety. Thorin might not have known that many archaeologists were extensively trained in different methods of scientific analysis, and he certainly didn't know that having pretentious outsiders question his abilities as a scientist made Bilbo see red. He considered himself an archaeologist, first and foremost, but he was certainly qualified enough to teach basic chemistry to a 13 year old.

Thorin, to his credit, looked shocked and a tad cowed. He clearly hadn't expected that answer from the flustered and red cheeked man who had stuttered out half of his earlier answers. He frowned, though without malice, and looked as though he was considering how to respond when his eyes slid past Bilbo and behind him.

"Fíli, I told you to stay in your room until I called for you. I am speaking with Mr. Baggins."

Bilbo turned around in his seat to see the older of Thorin's nephews standing in the doorway from which his uncle had emerged, a scowl on his face. He looked quite a bit different from Kíli and Thorin, his hair and eyebrows a sandy blonde color as opposed to the dark, inky brown of his Uncle and brother, and he had slightly softer features and greyer eyes. The familial resemblance was, however, most striking in the disdainful scowl on the preteen's face.

"I wanted to meet him. Kíli said he was nice," Fíli offered with a shrug, carefully maintained teenage detachment just barely betraying a look of curiosity in his eyes, which were now fixed on Bilbo.

Bilbo smiled genuinely. Kids this age didn't scare him anymore, not after his nearly 3 years of teaching secondary school students. He knew that it was a painful and confusing time for a lot of kids, and there was a desperate need to communicate that one didn't care about anything.

Thorin glared at Fíli and he stared back at his uncle with a bored expression. Silence reigned, and Bilbo once again fought the urge to fidget. It seemed that awkward silences were a regular occurence in this house. He spoke again once he could no longer tolerate the tension.

"It's nice to meet you, Fíli. I hear you've got quite a knack for chemistry! I used to do a bit of that myself."

Fíli shrugged, but Bilbo could see the boy struggle to hide a smile and small look of pride.

"I'm okay at it. Science is interesting. But I'm more interested in history and stuff."

Bilbo briefly slipped his eyes over to scan Thorin's face while Fíli spoke, expecting his expression to have darkened further into a scowl, but to Bilbo's surprise it remained carefully neutral. Feeling a bit more comfortable talking to Fíli now that Thorin didn't look _as _openly hostile, Bilbo nodded and continued the conversation.

"I'm a big fan of history too. I like ancient history a lot. What kind of history are you interested in?"

Fíli looked back at Thorin, suddenly a tad hesitant. Bilbo watched as Thorin sighed and gestured for Fíli to come in the room. Fíli walked over to the couch but remained standing, leaning against the arm and looking a little uncomfortable, but curious nonetheless.

"I like ancient history too. I'm interested in Erebor's history. That's our home, by the way," Fíli paused, fiddling with them hem of his shirt sleeves.

Bilbo nodded, encouraging the boy to go on.

"It's really cool. Especially the really old history from before all the...empires and stuff, from outside. I have a really good book on it, if you're interested. Since you like history too," Fíli tapered off, shrugging in an attempt at nonchalance.

Bilbo's heart swelled for the kid.

_Aw, he's just a little history nerd. I'm sure we'll get along fine._

"I'd like that a lot, Fíli. I'm always trying to learn about as many cultures as I can." Bilbo replied, grinning. "And in fact - I have a great book to let you borrow, too."

Fíli's eyes widened slightly as Bilbo plucked one of the books he had brought with him up from the floor where he had carefully placed it after sitting down.

"You just have to promise to return it," Bilbo said in a conspiratorial tone, leaning over to hand the book to Fíli. "It's one of my favorites, an archaeologist who was friends with my mum gave it to me when I was a bit younger than you. It's about a temple called Chavín de Huantar, that's right at the bottom of the mountains in Peru, called the Andes. There's some pretty cool stuff in there. You've heard of King Minos and his labyrinth, probably?"

Fíli nodded quickly, flipping the book open and drinking in the full-color photographs. Bilbo loved that book.

"This temple is a kind of like that maze. Crazy and windy with mirrors to make it even more confusing."

"This is cool!" Fíli cracked a smile for the first time since entering the room. "Thank you, Mr. Baggins. I promise I'll give it back."

"Just 'Bilbo' is fine. And you're very welcome," Bilbo replied, feeling a bit giddy at his first encounter with the older of the two siblings having gone so well.

He looked over at Thorin and realized with a start that the other was watching his and Fíli's interaction closely, with a lot more warmth in his expression than Bilbo had yet to see. He was suddenly struck by how quickly those stormy blue eyes had turned from icily aloof to sparkling with amusement and fondness. Thorin met his eyes and the slight crook in the corner of his lips dropped, but the warmth in his eyes remained.

It suited him, Bilbo decided. After a moment he looked down and away under the scrutiny of that gaze. Fíli had retreated - Bilbo heard the sound of pounding footsteps as he raced (presumably) to his room - and Thorin had stood from his chair to cross over to the side of the couch where Fíli had just been. Bilbo swallowed at the sudden proximity, worried that he was perhaps going to get chewed out. Thorin bent over and reached for the other book on the floor, quirking one thick eyebrow at Bilbo as he stood back up, and then opened the book. It was a thick volume entitled "Art and Architecture of the Aztec Empire" with a glossy photo of a turquoise mosaic facsimile of a face on the cover, with a laughing mouth and golden eyes. He couldn't help the corners of his mouth twitching up in a small smile at the rapt attention Thorin was paying to the book. It had always been one of Bilbo's favorites.

"That's the first time in months I've seen Fíli actually express interest in something. He is very concerned with making sure everyone knows that he doesn't care about anything." Thorin looked up at Bilbo and the latter swore there was a hint of mirth hiding behind the stoic countenance.

"Really? He seems very passionate about history. I'm surprised."

Thorin looked back down at the pages as he spoke. "You wouldn't know it, most of the time. You got him to smile - he doesn't do that very often anymore."

Thorin sighed, pushing his glasses up onto his head and placing the book on the marble table top.

"Fíli has been very unhappy since we left Erebor. All he's wanted to do since we left is to go back." Thorin looked like he wanted to say more, but remained silent after speaking.

"Well...I'm sorry about that. It seems...like a difficult situation. But, I really think that both of the boys are great, honestly. They seem curious, and smart, and sweet."

Bilbo supposed he was inspired by Thorin's show of candor, it made him a tad less intimidating and Bilbo, for some reason, felt compelled to offer him some sort of reassurance.

Thorin cracked a genuine smile in response, close-lipped and small, but the crows feet on the corners of his eyes wrinkled and his eyes softened indescribably. Bilbo's heart did a little flip and he mentally cursed. He decided immediately that he liked being the cause of _that _smile and that he would endeavor to do it more in the future.

"They are. They are my world. Things have been hard for them recently, and they haven't gotten the attention that they've needed or deserved." Thorin frowned, his expression closing off. "It's rare that both of them make a positive connection with other adults. We've tried a...few nannies. But they like you, almost instantly, it seems."

Thorin looked a little annoyed for a moment, but schooled his expression before he continued.

"I admit that I had my doubts about you based on Gandalf's recommendation, but I think that your ability to connect with Fíli and Kíli...as well as your qualifications, have made me change my mind. For the time being."

Bilbo stared, mouth fallen slightly open for half a beat before realizing Thorin was offering him a job and jumping up to stand in front of him.

"Oh! Well, I'm very glad!" Bilbo smiled, suddenly feeling unsure what to say.

Thorin looked away, shuffling the papers and folder in his hands and then turning to walk to a small black writing desk tucked in a corner. He pulled a paper from the top and walked back.

"I have a copy of the contract here, which you can feel free to take home and look at before you sign, if you'd like. But I would like to have your answer by Monday, if possible."

"Thank you. Of course, I'll be sure to email you a copy."

"Oh, and - it says on the contract - but you will receive a stipend for an apartment, so you may want to start looking at places. You could...stop here, if you need to, while you're looking for a place. It would be good for you to get to know Fíli and Kíli better. I also know a good realtor I can put you in touch with."

Bilbo felt touched by the kindness of the gesture, disguised by a gruff voice though it was.

"Thank you. Really." Bilbo beamed with genuine excitement.

"Oh, and Mr. Baggins?"

"Yes?"

"Try to be on time in the future."

Bilbo immediately felt his cheeks grow hot.

_Nevermind. What a wanker. _

When Bilbo finally left the townhouse it was nearly 4, and the sun had just barely begun to peak out of a thick layer of clouds, illuminating the wet sidewalks with warm afternoon light. Thorin had asked him if he wanted a brief tour of the house, and before Bilbo could politely decline, Kíli had jumped from behind the doorway and insisted on leading the tour. Thorin had acquiesced.

Bilbo was then led on the most chaotic and unorganized tour of his life, but he did get plenty of time to appreciate the beautiful interior of the house, and the consistently tasteful and elegant interior design of each space. Bilbo almost tripped over his feet when he spotted an original Helen Frankenthaler - though a small one - that Kíli identified as the "Frankenstein painting." The Durins appeared to have quite a bit of money.

Bilbo was feeling something that he hadn't felt in quite some time - excitement. He grinned to himself as he walked to his car, in no major rush at this point. This was just a means to a possible end - getting to work on that dig in Erebor - but the job didn't seem so bad, after all. He had meant what he said to Thorin about Fíli and Kíli, and they definitely seemed better behaved than a good half of his normal fare of pupils.

And Thorin was...an interesting character. Bilbo really wanted to just shut down that train of thought right there, but his mind instead helpfully provided images of Thorin's genuine smile of affection for his nephews, and his stupid, brooding face in reading glasses, and _that is enough of that, thank you very much,_ Bilbo thought, rubbing at his chin.

_I need to call Drogo and Primula, _he realized suddenly, a new wave of anxiety washing over him at having to now _actually _deal with giving the house away and moving out.

Bilbo unlocked his mother's car as he approached the little shop it was parked in front of.

_Oh. Shit. I need to quit my other job, too. _The school year hadn't started yet, but Bilbo was expected to teach that fall. He began to chew on his lip as he started his car, glancing at himself nervously in the rear-view mirror. _I can't believe I'm moving back to London. What if I'm making a terrible mistake? _

He looked down at his phone, scrolling through his contacts until he reached the entry for "Drogo Baggins," hovering his thumb over the call button. It had been a long time.

Bilbo swallowed his guilt and called the number, setting out for his mother's home.

Bilbo and Drogo had spoken for almost an hour while Bilbo made his long trek back to Hobbiton. Drogo, to his surprise, also expressed guilt at having not reached out to Bilbo sooner after his mother's death, to check on him. They had just been so busy since Frodo was born, and were having a bit of financial difficulty.

Bilbo had assured him that he harbored no ill-will; Drogo and Primula had been incredibly kind and compassionate towards him during the week of his mother's funeral. Part of what had made that time so difficult was that a dozen or so of Bilbo's relatives had hung around the house all day every day, and several were staying in the two extra bedrooms in the house, another claiming the lumpy couch in the living room. Bilbo had invited Drogo and Primula to stay in the house as they had traveled the farthest and Primula looked fit to burst any minute, her large, round belly dwarfing her petite frame.

The other relatives had just sort of invited themselves to stay, no doubt speaking ill of Bilbo behind closed doors at him having inherited her house . From their perspective he was an ungrateful and hapless graduate student who lived hours away and had no right to the large house.

Primula and Drogo had actually stayed the longest after his mother's funeral, just about the full week. Bilbo had found excuses to shoo out the other relatives, but couldn't find it in him to do the same to the young couple. They were quiet, kind, and silently went about cleaning the house or cooking food without being asked, simply content to help Bilbo accomplish these simple yet daunting tasks while he was feeling numb and helpless. He had really appreciated their presence, even if he hadn't shown it as much as he had meant to at the time.

Drogo updated him on their life during the call: Primula had taken on a job with a graphic design firm, which was finally starting to bring in more money, but she didn't enjoy the work and was exhausted all of the time. The were also constantly scrambling to find a babysitter for Frodo throughout the day so that they could both work and afford rent and groceries. Bilbo felt for him - he had been in a somewhat similar situation a few years ago, but he had had the luxury of a house already paid off to live in, and no infant child to take care of. It was at that point that Bilbo made up his mind.

He knew that Drogo wasn't asking him or trying to pressure him for anything, and he also didn't believe in fate, but he did know when to take advantage of a good opportunity when he saw one, especially if it resulted in bringing someone else happiness. He asked Drogo, out of the blue, if it would be alright for him to visit for a day trip sometime in the coming week. Drogo had seemed surprised but happy, and told him that while they both worked somewhat erratic schedules, they were usually around on Tuesday nights. Bilbo almost agreed, but then remembered that he had told Thorin he would get back to him about the job by Monday. He had hesitantly asked Drogo if there was any chance that he could stop by for dinner tomorrow – Sunday – and reassured his cousin that _he _would bring dinner, he insisted, and he would explain everything when he was there. Drogo seemed a bit bewildered and hesitated for a moment before answering, but then eventually agreed and told Bilbo he was looking forward to seeing him.

When Bilbo finally pulled into the gravel driveway of his mother's house, he was exhausted. All he wanted to do was peel off his clothes and pass out in bed, but his stomach grumbled pointedly as he realized he hadn't eaten since breakfast. He shuffled into the house, flipping on the lights and hanging his coat on the rack. He gingerly placed the remaining of the two books he had brought back with him on his mother's coffee table and headed into the kitchen.

He glared balefully at his inside of his empty fridge and swung it shut. It was evidently going to be ramen, tonight.

He was bone-tired, but as he sat cross-legged on his couch eating from a cup of noodles, an article about Erebor open on his laptop, he didn't feel pathetic, or hopeless, or lonely.

He felt hopeful – and maybe even a little excited. He decided that regardless of having already been offered the job, he would stick to the niceties that his mother had always hammered into him for the interview processes. He opened up a new tab on his browser and began to compose an email to Thorin, thanking him for the opportunity to come in and talk and expressing that it was a pleasure to have met the boys and toured the house, and that he just had to check on a few arrangements tomorrow and would get back to Thorin by Monday as they had agreed. He knew it was an unnecessary formality, but he always did it after an interview to make a good impression. He was particularly concerned with making a good impression with Thorin, who seemed a tough nut to crack.

_It would be nice to be on the receiving end of that smile every now and then, _Bilbo thought, chewing down on his lip as he hesitated over the phrasing of his email. _As opposed to the scowl I got for most of the interview. _

He internally chided himself, pushing past the thoughts as he concluded his email with a "Sincerely yours, Bilbo Baggins."

_A bit much, that. _Bilbo thought, slightly embarrassed, and hastily backspaced the "yours."

He reviewed the email quickly for grammar errors and then sent it off before he could worry over it any further. He sighed contently and clicked back to the article on Erebor, pushing his reading glasses back up onto his nose. He read until he had finished his dinner and his eyes were growing heavy. Just as he was about to shut his laptop, a little bold "1" appeared next to his "inbox" tab that had previously read 0. He felt his stomach flutter slightly with excitement and he opened the tab, telling himself it was probably just another automated alumni email from his University. When we realized it was a reply from Thorin, he quickly clicked on the bolded message to open it. He hadn't expected to hear back from him so soon, or perhaps at all in reply to this particular email.

The missive was short and succinct, which Bilbo now understood was just how Thorin communicated after speaking to him in person.

"Dear Mr. Baggins,

Thank you for coming in to speak with me and meet Fíli and Kíli. Dís sends her apologies, she has been away the last few days on a business trip. You will get a chance to meet her soon.

Fíli is greatly enjoying the book you lent him, and is looking forward to showing you his book on Ereborian history.

We look forward to working with you.

Sincerely,

Thorin"

Bilbo smiled at the mention of Fíli. He was slightly disappointed that there wasn't a more personal tone to the email, but wasn't quite sure what he had been expecting. Still, Thorin had taken the time to reply, and even said "thank you."

Bilbo smiled sleepily into his hand and shut the laptop, heading for bed. He slept soundly that night, his dreams filled with towering, forested mountains against a crisp blue sky, crumbling stone ruins, and stormy blue eyes.


End file.
